


Pride Before The Fall

by Val_Creative



Category: His Dark Materials (TV), His Dark Materials - Philip Pullman
Genre: Affection, Canon Related, Dark, Dark Character, Dark femslash week, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Emotional Manipulation, Episode Related, F/F, Femslash, Femslash February, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Seduction, Incest, Introspection, Loss of Control, Manipulation, No Smut, Non-Consensual Touching, Power Dynamics, Season/Series 01, Underage Kissing, Unhealthy Relationships, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-19
Updated: 2020-02-19
Packaged: 2021-02-28 02:40:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22796467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Val_Creative/pseuds/Val_Creative
Summary: (Alternate Scene for 1x06.) Mrs. Coulter rescues Lyra, taking her to her quarters, and Lyra won’t be manipulated any further.
Relationships: Lyra Belacqua/Marisa Coulter
Comments: 12
Kudos: 48





	Pride Before The Fall

**Author's Note:**

> PLEASE READ ALL OF THE WARNINGS. DO NOT IGNORE. For anon’s challenge and for [Dark Femslash Week](https://darkfemslashweek.tumblr.com/post/190367187390/dark-femslash-week-third-take), Day 2 _“Some kill their love when they are young, /// And some when they are old”_ prompt.

*

Mrs. Coulter is everything she wants to be seen as: light, sweet, and _persuasive_.

Lyra knows what she wants, and it's not Lyra. Not really. Mrs. Coulter wants the alethiometer for her own. For power. She can see that dull, menacing glint behind the shimmer of tears in Mrs. Coulter's eyes. She's so sorry, Mrs. Coulter says. So, so sorry.

She never meant to do Lyra any harm… but if it was Billy Costa, Roger, Annie.… they didn't matter to her. They could be harmed.

The chamomile tastes warm and bland. Lyra presses the glass to her mouth, taking small, slow sips. Her expression reveals nothing. Mrs. Coulter, draped and fitted in vermilion, reaches out to pet Lyra's chin with fingertips.

"That's my good girl," she murmurs approvingly. "You're doing well. So well."

Lyra's stomach churns. Mrs. Coulter smells like hot, oxidized metal more than ever. Not even rosewater perfume helps.

(It's odd how Lyra desperately thought she could be just like Mrs. Coulter long before. And, well, Mrs. Coulter only desired Lyra to be _perfect_ for her and her guests and her friends: charming, elegant in how Lyra presented herself, innocent, and a delight.)

Lyra sips on the chamomile tea once more, narrowing her eyes thoughtfully. Think like Lord Asriel, she reminds herself.

Now think _harder_.

(How would he survive and escape getting trapped by Mrs. Coulter?)

Pantalaimon keeps hidden as a tiny and slime-glistening slug, creeping under the fold of Lyra's uniform collar. He cannot bear to be in the sights of Mrs. Coulter's daemon. The monkey flashes its needle-like teeth at Lyra, like a soulful grimace, right when Mrs. Coulter smiles widely to her daughter. She pets over Lyra's chin again as soon as the glass lowers from Lyra's mouth.

"I've missed you so much, Lyra…"

Lyra trades her flat, calculating look she inherited from Lord Asriel into something softer. Brimming with gentle, submissive affection. "I've missed you," Lyra whispers, hearing a low, satisfied breath. "I feel safe now… I feel safe _with my mother_ …"

"Yes," Mrs. Coulter sobs, her face lighting up with relief. Tears roll down her powdered-pretty, white cheeks. "Yes, yes… _oh my darling_ …" She lets out a pleasant laugh. It almost sounds bashful. Her thumb drags fondly on Lyra's bottom lip. Mrs. Coulter's flesh tastes warm, like her tea, but manufactured in sweetness as her hand cream. "My darling Lyra, _yes_ … I am here for you…"

"Thank you," Lyra says solemnly, mustering all of her nausea and fear to be willed away. She must lie. She _must_.

Mrs. Coulter's other hand twists into Lyra's dark strands, combing them. A shiver cuts unexpectedly into Lyra. Cut. They were going to _cut_ Pantalaimon from her. Tears moisten Lyra's eyes. "Hush, hush now," Mrs. Coulter mumbles, noticing. "What is it?"

Before she can reason something believable, Mrs. Coulter drifts in, sniffling and cupping the side of Lyra's face with her entire palm. She kisses his daughter's mouth in reverence, over and over. Like she is a holy, heavenly thing. Like Lyra herself can provide the forgiveness needed for Mrs. Coulter's state of mind. All of her _wrongs_. Lyra's brows crease in perplexity.

Love should not be weaponised.

Not by her… not by her cruel, ruthless mother…

Berry-red lipstick smears on and around Lyra's mouth. Creamy. Satiny. One of Mrs. Coulter's nails scratches a long, unbroken path over her daughter's pale cheek. Leaving a red, but not berry, streak of heat. Lyra holds back a wince.

Mrs. Coulter pulls off, eyeing Lyra's features with slight disdain.

_"You…"_

"Hold me," Lyra blurts, almost whining in need. She holds out her arms. "Mother…"

That does the trick. She can hardly believe it. Mrs. Coulter's heartsick look returns to her as if it never left.

She embraces Lyra, resting against her daughter's front. Lyra reclines to the pillows, letting Mrs. Coulter do as she wills, tilting her neck. Pantalaimon forms into the tiniest mouse imaginable, burrowing under Lyra's sleeve and diving himself under the sheets. The softness drains completely out of Lyra's expression until she's staring listlessly up at the ceiling. Empty of feeling. Numb.

Lyra's arms tighten round her mother's neck. She ignores the litter of kisses, the string of praises and compliments. Mrs. Coulter mumbles fretfully into Lyra's ear and jaw, touching dutifully over Lyra's breastbone to press over her heart.

She sighs softly, tilting her neck and head back, arching herself further into the older woman.

"There we are," Mrs. Coulter announces, raspy-deep and thankful. She seizes onto Lyra's tin. "Beautiful, my darling." Lyra doesn't respond to a new kiss, her mother's lips covering to hers wetly and making Lyra's skin shiver once more.

_Now's the time to choose a side…_

She can hear Mrs. Coulter's earlier words ringing in her skull.

 _Now's the time to choose who you belong to_ …

Lyra watches her rise from the bed, purposely rattling the tin full of a very angry spy-fly. She smirks.

_(I belong to me.)_

*


End file.
